The First Servant
by Biggles Mad
Summary: Bertie and Ginger take to the air in the Auster to escape a heatwave, and become embroiled in an equine adventure. By HRH.


The First Servant

_Wild Horse bent his wild head, and the Woman slipped the plaited hide halter over it, and Wild Horse breathed on the Woman's feet and said, 'O my Mistress, and Wife of my Master, I will be your servant for the sake of the wonderful grass.'_

_Rudyard Kipling Just So Stories, The Cat Who Walked By Himself._

It was shirt sleeve order at the office as the temperature climbed. Bertie appeared one morning in a brightly coloured outfit of Caribbean short-sleeved shirt and Bermuda shorts, which made Ginger smile, but which brought forth from Biggles a reminder that they were at work, and police work at that.

"Sorry, old boy," murmured Bertie contritely, "it's the heat."

"At least he'd be able to do an undercover job," put in Ginger. "No one would ever suspect he's a policeman dressed like that. I looked at my tropical kit this morning and was very tempted to put it on"

Biggles sighed. "We're just not used to temperatures in the 80s in England," he acknowledged.

There was a knock on the door and a postman entered with a large parcel for which Biggles signed. When the wrappings had been removed and the box opened, a large electric fan was installed on the filing cabinet, much to everyone's delight.

"I thought we could do with a punkah," explained Biggles.

There was a general rush to get it working.

"Ah, that's better," sighed Algy as the fan rotated in his direction.

All the windows of the small Air Police office at the airport were open, but the air inside was as listless as the men indoors. Only the air forced by the whirring blades of the fan had any energy to move.

Ginger closed the file on which he was working with an audible snap. "I'm going to get cabin fever if I have to stay indoors any longer," he declared. "I'd like to do a patrol over the beaches – just to make sure nobody's getting up to mischief, or getting into trouble," he added hastily.

Biggles smiled. "That's a good idea," he admitted. "As it's your idea, you can pilot it, but you'd better draw lots for who'll be your observer – I should imagine we'd all like to go with you. Unfortunately, it won't be me; I've got to go back to London for a meeting."

So saying, Biggles rose and picked up a panama, which, together with his lightweight linen suit, was his only concession to the heat-wave currently locked in place over the south of England and left.

The others drew lots for the opportunity to accompany Ginger on his patrol. Bertie's whoop of joy indicated his pleasure at winning.

Algy took his fate resignedly. "Left holding the fort again," he sighed as Ginger scribbled a flight plan.

"At least you'll get the fan all to yourself," said Ginger with a smile. "I'll bring you an ice cream when I get back." So saying, he picked up a headset and headed for the door, followed by Bertie in his garish costume.

Algy reached for the telephone. "I'll let Smyth know you're on your way and to have the Auster ready," he offered.

Ginger murmured his thanks and stepped out into the blistering heat. If it had been hot in the office, it was worse outside. The sun's rays were flung back by the concrete pathways with searing intensity. He felt his flesh sting.

"Let's get out of the sun," he urged Bertie. "I can feel myself burning to a crisp."

They hurried across to the shade of the hangar and plunged into its cavernous interior. Even in that huge space, the heat was stifling, radiated by the metal walls and roof.

Smyth, wearing overalls with the sleeves rolled up, was standing by the Auster, polishing the windscreen. "Phew! It's a scorcher, sir," he greeted the pair as they approached him.

"The sooner we're airborne the better," gasped Ginger. "It'll be cooler at 10,000 feet."

By the time the Auster was in position to be started and taxied away, Ginger was perspiring freely. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Bertie was polishing his eyeglass furiously and complaining that it was constantly getting steamed up.

With relief Ginger acknowledged the control tower's clearance to taxi and they rolled out to take off. The sun through the Perspex windscreen hit them like a hammer. Despite the dark glasses he was wearing, Ginger felt the sunlight stab at his eyeballs. Cleared for take off, the small monoplane lifted lightly into the air, pitching unsteadily as it passed through the thermals.

Ginger climbed away, glad when they were out of the tightly controlled airspace and able to revert to keeping a visual lookout, well away from the regular air lanes. He headed for Southend with no particular aim in view except to be out of the confines of the office. Flying a desk bored him to tears, he reflected, but he knew that paperwork was a necessary evil. He wondered if the world would cease to function if there were no more supplies of paper. Probably not, he concluded gloomily. The bureaucrats would only find another method of recording everything in triplicate and tying their hands with red tape.

Mechanically, Ginger's eyes swept the sky and land. When he had set out, he had had no expectation of finding anything to justify the patrol, but as he flew towards the coast, he realised that there was plenty of activity on the ground. He shied away from a courting couple who, thinking themselves unobserved, were indulging in some passionate embraces and headed out along the coast, looking for anything unusual. Bertie had the binoculars to his eye and was observing the beaches. It was the height of the holiday season and there was no shortage of sights to hold his attention.

"See anything suspicious?" asked Ginger hopefully.

"'Fraid not, old boy," murmured Bertie, lowering the binoculars. "Just a lot of holiday makers enjoying themselves."

Ginger glanced at his watch. "I'll just go along the coast for a few minutes and then I'll swing inland and we'll head for home," he decided. "It's getting really warm, even at this height."

Bertie acknowledged the truth of that assertion. The sun, pouring through the cockpit windows, was turning it into a greenhouse.

Ginger suited the action to his words and soon, having seen nothing remarkable along the stretch of coast, he swung the light aircraft to port and headed back over a patchwork of pastures and paddocks.

"Hold on a minute, old boy," ejaculated Bertie. "I think I've spotted something."

Ginger circled while Bertie swept the roads through his binoculars. "Yes, there's a loose horse down there. No saddle or bridle – it must have got out of its field."

You'd better inform the traffic division, then," suggested Ginger. "As it's on a public highway, I reckon that's their responsibility."

"It could cause a nasty accident before anybody can catch it," opined Bertie. "There's a field big enough to land on just over there. Put her down and I'll catch it and put it safely back in a field. Then we can inform the local boys in blue and they can trace its owner."

Ginger looked at him askance, but he had to acknowledge that Bertie had a point. The horse was heading for a major road, fortunately some distance off, which was carrying a steady stream of holiday traffic.

Accordingly, Ginger lined the Auster up for a landing. The field was clear of obstacles as far as he could see and the wind, judging by the lack of movement in the trees, was negligible, so he was able to choose an approach which gave him the maximum landing run. As the wheels touched down and the aircraft ran on safely, Ginger let out his pent-up breath in a barely audible sigh. He never liked putting an aircraft down on an unscheduled landing strip. Bertie opened the door and descended. Ginger hesitated.

"Come on, old boy," urged Bertie, "it'll be a two-man job."

"That's what I was afraid of," muttered Ginger as he made the Auster fast and followed Bertie, who was heading for the gate leading to the lane on which they had seen the loose horse. Ginger looked down the road. There was no sign of the errant animal and he was just beginning to think it had turned off or stopped to graze when he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves on tarmac.

"Get ready, old boy," warned Bertie. "I'll stand on the road and wave my arms to stop it. Get ready to block it off if it swerves."

Ginger's heart sank. He was not a coward, but the thought of facing half a ton of horse in full flight was a daunting one. Nevertheless, he stood slightly behind and to the side of Bertie, ready to do what was required of him.

In the event, his courage was not put to the test. Bertie stood firm, waving his arms and shouting, "whoa, boy," in a soothing tone as the horse approached. The effect was remarkable. The animal slowed its breakneck pace and trotted to a halt, gazing at the apparition which had appeared in its path, halting about a dozen yards away from the intrepid pair. It stared at Bertie, its ears flicking back and forward as if trying to weigh up the situation. Then, with a startled snort, it turned round and galloped off the way it had come.

"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed Bertie.

Ginger stifled a laugh. "He obviously didn't like your taste in clothes," he observed wryly.

"We'd better get back up top and see where he goes," suggested Bertie. "He might still cause an accident."

"I've heard of a wild goose chase," said Ginger as they took off again, "but I never expected to be involved in a wild horse chase."

"He isn't wild, old boy," averred Bertie. "He had a number stamped on his hoof. That means he's either a police horse or a cavalry horse."

Ginger frowned. "Then what's he doing here with no rider or tack?" he wanted to know. "There isn't a military summer camp in sight. Do they have a mounted division here?"

"Good question," acknowledged Bertie. "We'll have to find out. Maybe there's more to this than meets the eye."

They soon spotted the horse heading for a farm. It turned in through an open gate, jumped a hedge and joined a herd of horses that were grazing peacefully in a large field. One or two of the herd looked up, then carried on feeding.

"He's come home," asserted Bertie.

"How do you know?" asked Ginger curiously. "Maybe he just saw them feeding and thought it was a good place to stop."

Bertie shook his head. "Horses are herd animals and they sort out a hierarchy. If he hadn't already been an established member of the herd, the leader would have chased him off."

Ginger pinpointed the place on his map. "There's nothing more we can do from here," he decided. "There isn't anywhere nearby that I can get down safely, so we'd better go back and see if there have been any police or military horses reported missing. If necessary, we can always take a car to investigate the farm."

"Right-ho, old boy," acknowledged Bertie. "I've made a note of the number on his hoof, so we can do some checking when we get back. I wonder what made him jump out?" he mused. "He must have leapt the hedge because I couldn't see any break."

"I've no idea," declared Ginger. "Perhaps something scared him. Or maybe he just fancied a change of scenery and a day out?"

Bertie smiled at the thought. "I don't suppose we'll ever know," he admitted, "but he jumps well. I wouldn't mind taking him out for a day's hunting."

The last leg of the return flight was uneventful. Ginger handed the machine over to Smyth and accompanied Bertie back to the office, but mindful of his promise to Algy, he stopped at the café on the way to buy Algy a wafer.

"Good lad," smiled Algy approvingly as he took the ice cream. "Just what I needed." He looked at Bertie in surprise as he went straight to the telephone and asked for a Whitehall number.

"I'm just calling an old pal in the Blues and Royals," Bertie told him, breaking off as his call was connected.

Algy looked at Ginger questioningly and was filled in with the events of the patrol. Bertie put the handset down and grimaced. "We've drawn a blank on cavalry horses," he declared, shaking his head. "All present and correct and that goes for the RHA as well." He reached for the telephone directory and asked the operator to connect him to the mounted police division. His demeanour became more animated as the telephone call progressed. When he terminated the call, his eyes were shining.

"It looks as though we're on to something," he informed the others. "One of the mounted branch officers based at Southend has failed to report for duty this morning. He'd been on compassionate leave for a month after his wife's death in a hit and run accident. They'd let him keep his horse at home while he was off. They thought it would help him take his mind off things."

"What things?" asked Biggles who had entered at the tail end of this conversation.

Bertie explained. "It isn't strictly an Air Police matter," he mused, "but you may have stumbled on something, so you'd better follow it up. Take a car and go and see the Super at the station where that chap – what was his name?"

"Morton," supplied Bertie. "Ted Morton."

"Where Constable Morton was based," continued Biggles. "Then go and look at his home – I presume they've already sent someone there to check?"

Bertie nodded.

"Then you'd better go and have a look at this farm. Take Ginger with you. Oh, and I should change into something more suitable for an investigation, if I were you," he advised. "You do want to be taken seriously, don't you?"

"Fair enough, old boy," acknowledged Bertie. "We'll drop off at the flat on the way."

When Bertie emerged from their Mount Street home, more soberly attired in a smart linen suit, Ginger was surprised to see he was carrying a small suitcase. "Have you brought your beach togs with you?" he wanted to know.

"My riding kit, old boy," Bertie enlightened him. "I thought if I turned up and the farm in my boots and britches it would be more plausible that I'm enquiring about a horse."

"Good thinking," murmured Ginger approvingly. "Let's get cracking. We're burning daylight."

More than once on the journey Ginger wished himself back in the air. The road was busy and as they neared the coast, the traffic became heavier and slower, with jams more frequent. At last they reached their destination and were able to talk to the Superintendent in charge about his missing officer.

"Ted has always been a reliable chap," said the Superintendent. "He's conscientious, hard-working, industrious. One of my best men. This is most unlike him. It's totally out of character for him to fail to turn up for duty. His wife's death came as a terrible shock and he took it hard. Between you and me, I'm afraid that he might have gone and done something silly."

Ginger knew how the constable felt. He tried not to think of Jeanette, but her loss was just as painful despite the passing years.

Bertie took the slip with Constable Morton's address and directions how to reach it. The officer's home turned out to be a small cottage on the wold, just two up and two down, but with a shippon behind that had been turned into a stable. The door was open and the stable was empty. Bertie looked in. It had been mucked out and set fair.

"Nothing unusual here," he remarked.

They went into the house. There were no signs of a struggle and everything was in order. The crockery from breakfast had been neatly stacked on the draining board to dry in the tiny kitchen. Ginger went across to the pantry and opened the door. He reeled back, gagging, as the smell of sour milk hit him. He closed the door hastily. "I shouldn't think he's been here for at least a week," he gasped.

Bertie grimaced. "I think you're right old boy. I don't think we're going to find anything here. I'll just change my togs and we'll have a look at that farm."

When Bertie had donned his riding kit, they returned to the car and set off for the farm where they had seen the horse rejoin the herd.

"I know more about pit ponies than riding horses," declared Ginger, "so I'll let you do the talking."

"Fair enough, old boy," acknowledged Bertie. Overcome by curiosity, he could not resist asking, "did you go down the pit then?"

Ginger shook his head. "My dad was a miner," he explained. "The pit ponies used to come up for a holiday once a year. They hated the light because they were so used to being underground in the dark." He shuddered inwardly at the thought of perpetual darkness in the stifling closeness of the underground seam. It was a fate that could so easily have been his.

Bertie fell silent, leaving Ginger to his sombre musings as they motored through the lanes to their destination. Ginger drew up in the farmyard and Bertie descended, elegant in his yellow polo-necked cotton sweater, fawn britches and highly polished brown boots. A flat cap completed the ensemble. He had left his tweed jacket in the car, declaring it was far too hot for that. Bertie had called the outfit 'rat catcher', but Ginger thought it was too fancy for catching rats. In his experience men wore their working clothes and had a terrier to dispatch the vermin.

He followed Bertie to the door and stood by as he knocked. After a few moments, a surly man opened it and demanded their business.

Bertie raised his cap politely and introduced himself, using his title. "I'm looking for a new hunter, dontcha know?" he explained. "I was informed that you might have something suitable for sale." He gave a general description that fitted the missing police horse.

The man hesitated, looking at the pair of them suspiciously. He looked Bertie up and down. Bertie gave a vacuous grin.

Ginger could almost hear the man thinking. Here was some fool of a toff who would probably offer him good money for an animal he wanted to get rid of. There would be no need to go through the sale ring where the stamp might be noticed. On the other hand, the horse was hidden in the herd. Finding it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Suspicion, greed and fear fought for possession of the man's mind. In the end, as Ginger hoped it would, greed triumphed. The man nodded. "I'll get a head collar," he muttered and disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

"So far, so good," breathed Ginger.

The man reappeared as abruptly as he had left. In his hand he carried a rope halter. Ginger noticed he had donned a flat cap like Bertie's.

"He's good to catch," the man muttered. "No vices."

"I'm delighted to hear it," burbled Bertie and proceeded to tell a long-winded story about one of his previous hunters' foibles as the prospective seller led them through a barn full of straw and hay.

Ginger slowed his pace and looked around. He noticed an oily patch beneath a bale of straw and dropped back further to investigate. Bertie was still engaging the farmer's attention so Ginger took the opportunity to drag the bale askew. Behind it was hidden a battered grey pick-up truck. It's front wing was dented and buckled. A small scrap of floral cotton fabric was caught in the jagged metal. Ginger extracted it carefully and put it safely in his pocket before dragging the bale back in place and hurrying to catch up with the others. The man looked at him sharply.

"Had to tie my shoelace," explained Ginger. "I didn't want to trip up."

When they reached the field, the horses stopped grazing and looked up. Some of them began to make their way to the gate, expecting food. The dark bay with white socks that they had seen on the road remained aloof, a little way apart from the others. He looked at them suspiciously, but being a herd animal he eventually followed the rest of the group who were now congregating around the gate. He stopped a little way from them, still keeping his distance.

"Do you mind if I catch him?" insisted Bertie as the farmer was about to enter the field. He held out his hand for the halter. "After all, if I'm going to buy him, I want to know that he'll come to me."

The man glanced at Ginger. "I'd have thought your groom would have done it."

"He's my driver and mechanic," corrected Bertie, to Ginger's amusement. "He's better with engines than horses."

The man handed over the halter reluctantly. Bertie swung himself easily over the gate and advanced confidently through the throng of curious horses toward his objective. Ginger could see Bertie's lips moving, but he had no idea what he was saying. Whatever it was, it appeared to be effective, for the police horse, as by now they were certain it was, did not move away. Bertie slid his hand up the animal's neck and slipped the halter easily over the horse's nose and ears. He ran his hands down the horse's legs and picked up his hooves. To Ginger's surprise, Bertie vaulted onto the horse's back and trotted him round bareback, with only the halter for guidance.

Ginger hoped his astonishment at Bertie's feat of horsemanship would not show. He knew, of course, that Bertie hunted and had ridden all his life, but this was the first time he had actually seen his comrade mounted.

Having performed a few changes of pace and lateral movements, Bertie halted the horse and slid off, leading the animal back to the watching pair.

"Jolly decent," approved Bertie. "Nice manners."

"He's 200 guineas," declared the farmer.

Bertie drew in a startled breath at the size of the asking price. "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed. "That's a bit steep. Absolutely vertical, in fact! Is he a Derby winner?"

"Take it or leave it," he grunted.

"I'll think it over," murmured Bertie. "I have one or two other horses to see, Mr …?"

"Dutton," supplied the farmer grudgingly.

"Well, Mr Dutton, you'll be hearing from me," promised Bertie, as he handed the lead rope to the farmer. The man removed the halter and shooed the horses away. Bertie and Ginger walked back to the car in silence.

As they drove away, Ginger told Bertie of his discovery among the straw in the barn.

"I say!" exclaimed Bertie. "Well done! If that links in to the hit and run, then Constable Morton must have been here. That's definitely his horse. The number and the markings match exactly. Besides which," he added, "he's been trained in crowd control. He knows all the moves."

"Let's get back and tell Biggles what we've found," suggested Ginger. "Then he can decide whether we carry on or hand it over to the local lads."

"Good work," concluded Biggles when they reported back. "That scrap of material Ginger found matches the dress Mrs Morton was wearing when she was killed. It's pretty obvious that Morton would not be able to let the matter rest and was making enquiries. As a constable's pay wouldn't run to buying a car and his horse needed to be exercised, he must have ridden over. Perhaps he made the same discovery as Ginger, but was caught in the act, or maybe he was so incensed by what he found that he tackled Dutton head on. Either way, he hasn't been seen since. I'll pass this on to the local station and they can take it from there."

Apart from being informed of the events that close the case, that was the end of the Air Police involvement. The local police sent a team to the farm and uncovered the pick-up. Traces of blood were found on the damaged wing, which proved conclusively that it had been the vehicle which killed Mrs Morton. Arrested for the driving offence and confronted with the evidence, Dutton confessed to the manslaughter of the policeman. He claimed that Constable Morton had come pounding on his door when he'd just got back from shooting rabbits. The policeman had been like a madman, he alleged. He had been attacked and in the struggle the shotgun had gone off, fatally wounding Morton. The farmer admitted he had panicked because killing a policeman was a capital offence. He had buried the body under the muck heap and turned the horse out among the herd. Once they had sorted themselves out, it was indistinguishable from the rest. As Ginger had surmised, when a toff 'with more money than sense' as the man put it, had turned up, he had seen a solution to his problem of what to do with the unwanted evidence and a chance to make a fat profit at the same time, which had proved to be his undoing.

Ted Morton's body was recovered from its undignified resting place and interred next to his wife.

"And that," expressed Biggles as he closed the folder and handed it to Ginger to file away, "was that. Murder will out and Dutton will pay the penalty."

"And all because a horse made a break for freedom," added Ginger.

"Horses are very clever animals," averred Bertie. "They may look dumb, but underneath they're quite astute."

"I've noticed there are some people, like that, too, Bertie," observed Biggles, looking at his subordinate with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Bertie had the grace to blush. "Oh, I say, steady on, old boy," he burbled. "I shan't be able to get the old titfer on if you say things like that."

The others broke into laughter at Bertie's discomfiture.

"I think we've all deserved an ice cream," decided Biggles. "Let's go down to the canteen and celebrate the end of the case with a cornet."


End file.
